The Distant Dystopia
by Delusional Fishies
Summary: On the brink, the precipice of his ideals, just a little nudge would have him become... however, that future is gone. But his past still remains. Homu Homu! Best viewed in Unicode UTF-8.
1. End

**The Distant Dystopia**

A̛ d͏es̨͏̢o̵l͏a҉t̡̢͝e̕ ͘w̢̢͡a̸͞s̀͜t̵̢͠e̕͡l̵̵a̢̧n͡d…̧

He was sure this was his destined graveyard. His muscles were torn, his bones broken, and his breath ragged. His limbs were sprawled in various configurations unlike how a normal arm or leg should bend. He this… this must be death approaching. He had thought he had defeated his future, but now with his formerly white coat so stained with blood, and with the enemies so close at the gates, he…

This body of his, made o͏̸f̵ ̢̕ş̨t̴e̡͡él̶͠͝ ̀a̡n̴͞ḑ̵͝ ̴̡̡fìrȩ̶̧, was tired. So t̡͜͠i͢͡r̴͏e̶̸d̸̀̀ …

The sounds of battle seemed distant. Perhaps if he strained, he could almost hear her long forgotten voice once more. Yet, it was not to be. The battle ground was littered with marks of destruction, a mark of his last battle. Here, he had àl̢r̵ęad̸y f̷org͘ot̀te͟n ̢w̡h҉y ḩe͘ fo͠ug̸ht̶. Here, he had forgotten how many he killed. And here, he had c̀reated ͘ove̴r̵ a ̵t̕h̶ou͡sand́ ͢bl͏ades̕.

He struggled, trying to drag himself up to fight against the coming darkness. This e͟ntr͠o̧p̧y̷ o͏f̡ e̡vi͘l̀ ͝ must be stopped. It was many white beasts, infinite, with their glowing ruby eyes… If his life was sacrificed to save the thousands behind him, then so be it.

His fingers were shaking, as he brought them up to his chest. At the center was the wound the people he tried to protect and inflicted upon him. In their ignorance, they had thought him to be the source of their troubles. In the end, he couldn't blame them. Yet… they still betrayed him. In this ultimate betrayal, on a battleground no one in the world has heard of, he would fade into history. He would be u͜n̕k͟no͜w̶n to ͟nei̢thér͏ ̶t͟h̛e̢ ̨de̶a͘d,͡ ͟n̴or͡ ́t͏h̡e͢ ͝l̛iv̢ing. For no one would remember his work, h͠i͏s̨ a̧ct̛i̷o̡n͏s̵ …

"Ah… father, it looks like I'm not going to be a hero after all," He croaked. His voice cracked. One of the monsters he destroyed earlier had come close to crushing his throat. He leaned up, but did not try to stand up yet. Every spare iota of energy will be needed if his betrayers were to live.

He tried to flex his fingers. Damn. The slick feel of blood had passed, giving way to a crust of hardened and cried dirt. It was a mixture of the blood, sweat, and grim on his hands. Yet… he would ẃi̴t̷h̨stand ̧th̡is ̢pain that echoed through his body, to c̶r͝éa̧t͜e m̶a͢n͞y ̡m̸or̷e̛ w̷eapo͏ńs͘ before the end of this day.

Yet… hiş han͝ds c̀ould no̷t hòl͢d ̷an̡y̡thi͢ng̸...

S̵ơ̶ ̀͟h̷é̴ ̧pr̴̵a̡͝y̷è̵́d̷͡...

He prayed to the world, asking for power. If he must agree, to be forced, to gȩt̨ hi̶s̴ wi͘s͡h̶ … if it must be this c̶̛͜ơ͞n͏̷tr̶͜aç͏͘t̛͢ …

"Don't," A young voice startled him out of his reverie. He looked up; not quite believing his ears when they told him it was the voice of a young girl. She was a contradiction, if he had ever seen one. Her garb was merely that of a Japanese school girl's. It brought back distant memories of a past utopia he had already forgotten. It would not return. Her weapons… oh where does he start? Slung over her shoulder was a newer model rocket launcher, but it contained enough power that even he could sense the energy radiating from within. On each leg was strapped two pistols, and in her hands, a simple dagger. On her wrist though, was a͡ ͘s̨t̷r͠a̕ng͝e̕ sh̛i̶el̕d̸. It bore an even stranger ho͘u̧r҉g̵ĺas͞s͢, so filled with power. How peculiar.

"Don't?" He asked, quirking a silver eyebrow.

The girl nodded. "Come." She held out a hand.

He wanted to ask where, why and who? But something told him… something…

The girl sighed. "The past can be undone. Now come," she said again, this time more forceful than the last.

So Emiya Shirou, so on the brink of becoming someone else entirely, nodded. He dredged up the last of his strength and stood. "Let's go."

"_Yes, let's go, homu_."


	2. Rifle

**The Distant Dystopia**

C̷͗̏̄͋͏̥̳̝͔͍͚̱̲̭l̛̙͇͙̼͙͚̙̫̭̲͗ͤͩ͊͂̈͑ͩͬ͑̾ͩͪ͂̆̍̎͘͘͜i̤̟͔̰̘ͦ̎̇͐̐ͭ͑̍ͥ͋̍̀͂̇͞c̴̨̺̭͖̝̝̲͎͙̺̗͉̆̂͛̈͑ͫ͆̽̂ͧ͆ͪ͂ͯͬ̔̎̚͞k̭͈ͨ͑̽͊̎̆̉̒̐͐̽̅̓͐̉̚͜͜͡ͅ.̷̩͓͓̗͔̼̣̹̣͕̐ͧ̓́̀ͧ͟

C͏͠l̛͡ì͞c҉̡k̵͠.̨͝

Sh͞o҉o̧t͡.

Miss.

I do not reinforce my arm or my eyes. The recoil stings my arm, the part of me that has become accustomed to modern weaponry since I have returned… here. My hands callused as they have never before and newly developed muscle memory still sore from practice.

Reload.

I wipe my sweat covered palm against the thighs of my pants. Uncomfortable pants are uncomfortable. Compared to my polished and practiced body, this is a long ways off. Yet this is a path I have yet to take. I am interested. Perhaps, just perhaps, this would work better than…

Click.

My eyes shift for a fraction of a second. I see her coming to me from behind. She frowns. Watching.

Click.

I take aim again. There is no wind in this shooting range. I use my natural senses, so in need of honing after relying on my magecraft for so long, to see where to aim. The target creeps into my cross-hairs.

Shoot.

Off target—Miss.

"Why do you bother with the single shot?" She grumbles. Her frustration vibrates in her voice, my unconsciously enhanced ears pick up all the little details of her discomfort. She crosses her arms and shifts.

I don't turn around.

I have one bullet left, a single bolt more to go. By now, my natural, human potential has been stretched to the limit. Prana is on the edge, ready to be used. It is so tempting. My power sings to me, but I silence it before it could tempt me out of my concentration. There is only shoot and reload in this world. It feels… wrong. It feels against my own sense of self to use this weapon, even…

This weapon has a history, like all weapons.

It could even be close to be a noble phantasm, this model… _t͜h̕e ̴mos̡t r͠elįable͜, ̀s̢t͟ro͏ng͘est, a̛n̷d̸ al͝t́o̧geth͘er͟ ͡best ̀siņgl͢e ͞sh̴ót r̛i̴f͝l̨e ͞e͜vȩr pŗod̴uce͜d_, people called it_._ And belief? Belief shaped it.

Created in 1886, this one in my hands used the same plans of a legend in the gunsmith world from a century ago. It had been maintained and polished, used as a training weapon, and sat in a museum. That is, until the girl behind me took it around fifty years ago. Then it sat still, within some alternative compartment she stored it in,f̛͟o̡r̀ ̕͞f҉if̕t̢̡̀y̡҉͝ ̡͘y͘͘e͠͡a̸r͝ś͠.

Until one month ago, when she gave it to me on accident… but this weapon has a history. It was loved and cherished the only way a weapon could be: to be used for its purpose. She had done something to it, after seeing my fascination to this weapon. It became linked, connected, to its own legends…

Reload.

"It helps me concentrate," I replied. It was not the real reason at all. But with a single shot, at least I have a feel for it like a sword. Like a sword, there is process. I must draw the weapon and sheath it. Now, I aim and reload. There are no other options.

She had shown me some other weapons, with firepower far greater than what the average magus should be able to bring forth. But the speed they fire, with such power… I am reminded of a distant memory. I could see the smug smirk on the arrogant king's face as he tears out her heart… It sickens me.

"Hmph. There's much better weapons than that," she retorts. There is no spirit in her voice. I want to ask her how many times has she done this already? How many times has she taken me specifically back to this time, and tried to use me to fulfill her purpose? I still yearn to ask as my mind wanders in my dreams, but I never voice my questions and doubts. They will be saved for another day, when they are necessary. "You aren't good with it anyway."

Click.

I grunt as I reload. There has been tension between us. I won't beat around the bush about this. Her inelegant attempts at nudging me towards the options she thinks are best irritate me. She wants to control how the future flows, I understand that. And she is of the future and past. She knows about time far more than I do. She knows. But still.

Click.

"If I hit the target, you'll join me in the dojo after this." I growl out. It was unintentional. I don't mean to lash out at her. But within me is a barely contained rage. If she had not intervened, would I have become that which I tried to prevent?

A small voice within me keeps giggling. It laughs at me as I struggle to keep myself sane. It whispers, oh how it whispers. It taunts me with the grim future of the counter guardian even now. My doubts still stand. Would I still become _him_even after coming back now?

"Fine," she harrumphs and turns her attention elsewhere. It was not cute at all. She does not act like Tohsaka, who I could see blushing whenever I tease her. This girl… she is cold. Dead inside. Isn't she?

Shoot.

Ḧ̠̲̣͔̈́̊ͭì̺͍̌t͔̣̱͔̤̙̗ͪ̓ͪͨ͒ͤ̂.͉̹̝̥

"You cheated, cheater." She accuses me.

I smirk at her as I turn around and begin the cleaning process. "And you never knew me for a cheater, did you?"

She glares at me. Then she turns around and struts out of the building.

I sigh. Perhaps I shouldn't antagonize my only ally. I run a hand through my hair—before I catch myself and stop. If I keep doing that, my hair will stop coming down and I'll even start looking like him. I slap my face with both hands, the sting shaking me out of my reverie.

As I begin packing up, her voice drifts to me from down the endless hall, "I'll see you in the dojo at four."

Ah. Perhaps I did sneak in reinforcement on the last shot. Heh. Well, t͞her͘e̕'̵s̀ ̕o͟n̸ę thin̵g͏ t͏hat n̸̡̕͢è̀̀͝v̧e͜͏̶r͜ ́c͜͢͡҉h͟á̛̕͡n̡͘͜͝g̴̢e҉s̨̕͝͡.̴̢


End file.
